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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26722201">Hallowed Warmth</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nameless_Windrunner/pseuds/Nameless_Windrunner'>Nameless_Windrunner</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dark Souls III</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 08:26:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,178</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26722201</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nameless_Windrunner/pseuds/Nameless_Windrunner</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Tis a tragic thing - to love in of the Age of Fire. This is a narrative retelling of the relationship and moments shared between the Lordseeker Anri of Astora (male) and the Ash seeking Embers (female). It follows the events of Dark Souls III with my own embellishment when the characters demand it, but major plot points are the same. Written by someone crazy enough to play Dark Souls for the plot and incredible world FromSoftware have created.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Anri of Astora/Ashen One</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Road of Sacrifices</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The long-decayed leaves on the Road of Sacrifices offer up their dying cries with a satisfying crunch. Step after step, the Ashen One marches toward her goal. It is still early in her journey. The tragedy of a village filled to the brim with undead is a fresh memory, and the scars of countless fatal missteps are only now beginning to heal. The trials so far have been numerous, but victories have been achieved. Another soft step on this path. Finally, she clears the hill. A humble bonfire waiting for her at the end of the road. The bonfire sits in the ruins of an old watchtower. The foundations and walls continue their stalwart duty despite the forest’s attempts to reclaim the land. Ancient beauty and architecture are highlighted by woodland greens. It is peaceful, despite the nightmares that lay just beyond. The Ashen One links the bonfire to those that have come before with a burst of embers, and she takes a well-earned seat at the fire’s edge. From behind her faceplate her eyes find that she is not alone at this bonfire. Two armored individuals have also taken advantage of the respite. The first is smaller in stature and rests on a pile of rubble. His armor is dull, but unscathed – untested by the horrors yet to come. Next to him, is a much more intimidating figure. He bears the black armor of an executioner. The armor is bulky, but the Halberd that rests of his back would indicate he is more dexterous than a cursory glance would suggest. They say nothing as she takes her rest, content to respect another’s boundaries and the solidarity of this quest. Still, she has barely spoken to anyone thus far. The humanity that still bubbles in her soul aches for companionship, and so she tears herself away from the fire’s warmth. she begins simply, and the only way she knows how.<br/>
“Hello,” The knight sitting upon the rubble responds quickly. His voice is young and humble, much like her own.<br/>
“Oh hello. How do you do?” A simple question, though she finds it difficult to answer.<br/>
“I fair well, thank you. I am Sibéal, one of the Unkindled.” The knight responds unprompted, though she is happy to hear his tale.<br/>
“I am Anri, of Astora. Unkindled, like you. This is Horace, a friend and travelling companion. Are you too in search of the Lords of Cinder?” His voice carries so much behind it. There is optimism though it is plagued by trepidation. Her heart beats a tad slower. A fellow unkindled. She has met two others on this quest of hers. The first being Hawkwood, a man drowning in the pool of despair. The other being Siegward, bound the face the giant Yhorm. The fact that this man has left the Firelink Shrine means he has achieved more than the first. It is warming to find someone who understands. Sibéal’s next words shake with the uncertainty in her gut.<br/>
“The flame has tasked me with such. Though I admit, I am lost, and not sure where to proceed next in my search.”<br/>
“We are well along the road of sacrifices. Below us is the Crucifixion Woods. Beyond the flooded woods lies Farron Keep, home of the Undead Legion. Further yet, the Cathedral of the Deep. We seek the Cathedral, home of the grim Aldrich.”<br/>
“I see,” Sibéal nods behind her helm. “I met the Unkindled tasked with facing down the Legion. He is not quite up the task. It would be best if I headed towards Farron Keep. The Undead Legion must be returned to their throne.” It is at this moment she takes time to notice the quiet of Horace. He has not said a word, nor seems interested in her presence at all. Anri steps in on his companion’s behalf. His tune changes as he speaks of Horace. Hope and admiration combine in his weave the highest of praise.<br/>
“Oh, yes, Horace… He’s not very talkative. But don’t think ill of him. He’s an upstanding, kind-hearted knight; a fine partner for this grueling journey. Without his help, I would have cursed this onerous duty long ago.” Sibéal smiles at the brotherhood they share.<br/>
“You are a worthy knight, and I appreciate your words.” She bows deeply to the man and takes her first steps to the next part of her journey. Anri’s words stop her.<br/>
“We may go our separate ways now, but we are both seekers of lords. The next time we cross paths, one may find the other in a time of need. May the Flames guide your way.”<br/>
“May the flames guide you.” She echoes the sentiment and treks on. The terrors of the Crucifixion Woods awaiting their next victim. Though she gained nothing from the exchange, her spirit lifted. The fires of determination were well fueled. Deep in her soul, the first candle has been lit. A small, delicate, beautiful, warm light, that will slowly consume her soul.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Deacons of the Deep</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sibéal’s eyes can only widen as the vortex of dark magic comes hurdling towards her. No shield could protect her, her reaction was too slow, she was too weak. Her body is launched from the ground, and her spine shatters against one of the nearby pillars. Broken and bloody, the girl takes another hit of her Estus flask. The wounds heal. She stands again and overlooks the mob of crazed deacons in front of her. Their monstrous red eyes bleeding together to form a vile wall of unrecognizable faces. Their staffs begin to channel foul pyromancies again. She has to move. Aldich’s tomb holds a dismal blue lighting. It is a ceremonious circle surrounded by pillars and wicked statues. The mob of deacons keeps themselves near the center of the tomb. They protect the gargantuan coffin of Aldrich to their dying breath. Each movement Sibéal makes reminds her of the fatalities she suffered before. Disturbed tiles from her body being splattered across the ground, a pile of ashes from misjudging the distance of a fireball, chipped pillars from her vain attempts to hide behind them. She has faced countless more powerful enemies than these Deacons, but it is their numbers that lets them skirt her attempts time after time. The deacons begin chanting once again. A large, destructive blast of dark energy is in her future. It takes time to cast – she can get a few hits in before she must flee for her safety. The painful tendrils of their magics tickle her back, ignoring her armor completely, as she evades the attack again. She’s only has the one Estus flask left. Her own pyromancies have let her keep her distance, but at this rate, she will fail again. She is so close. The leader of the Deacons is moving slower, he is nearly dead. <br/>	Out of nowhere, a rotund deacon makes a charge she did not expect. The fat abomination raises his weapon high and lets loose a saliva filled battle cry. He moves with surprising speed and she is caught unaware. She spent the last of her strength dodging their magics. She can’t raise her shield fast enough. Assured of her next death, Sibéal cannot help but close her eyes and brace for the pain. In the next instant, she hears the clank of shield, and the dying gurgles of the Deacon. Peeking one eye open, Sibéal is dazed. The armor and blue colors of Anri have manifested in front of her, taking the blow with his shield and lodging his sword through the Deacon’s brain. Her eyes turn to the hoard, as Horace the Hushed takes his halberd and carves a path through the hordes of devout Deacons. <br/>	“Come on, we have to reach their leader!” Anri’s voice brings Sibéal back to the fight. She drinks the last of her Estus and charges back into the fray. Anri and Horace successfully manage to kite around the mob, killing the weaker ones off and wounding those who can take a hit. With the last of her dexterity, Sibéal maneuvers around their backside and launches her blade into the back of the Archdeacon. The brilliant reds of his eyes slowly fade. Simultaneously, all the other Deacons wither and fall into an overwhelming array of corpses. The Deacons defeated, the three gather themselves and meet at Aldrich’s tomb.  <br/>	“Aldrich isn’t here…” Anri’s voice is distant as he takes in the empty tomb of Aldrich. Horace begins picking at the fallen to find their valuables – already accepting of the fact their prey is not here. Sibéal takes her place next to Anri. <br/>	“Thank you for the help,” she speaks, bringing his attention to her. <br/>	“Of course,” He bows apologetically. “It pains me that we weren’t here earlier, had I known you were battling such a foe I would have come immediately.” <br/>	“I…” She weighs what is worth telling the man. Her pride demands she keep the little power she has left. Her heart demands she speak recklessly “There was no need to risk yourself. I had nearly bested them.” This inspires something she hasn’t heard yet in her time back upon the scorched earth: a genuine laugh. Not a mad one, not a broken one, but a simple and sweet laugh. Anri briefly laughs at her comment before speaking further. <br/>	“I’m sure you would have, though you lie poorly mi lady.” He’s correct. Deception has never been one of her strong suits. “You are a capable warrior, Horace and I did very little work, merely provide you the opportunity.” Her pride is not as unbreakable as she’d like. Sibéal acquiesces to her humility.  <br/>	“It was a kindness for you to protect me. I apologize for my criticism –  being a debtor suits me ill. I merely pray to repay the favor someday.” <br/>	“This journey is long and perilous. I am certain you shall have your chance.” Anri’s attention returns to the tomb before them. “Aldrich is not here.” <br/>	“Indeed,” Sibéal nods. “A grave misfortune to be sure, where will you go now?” <br/>	“I am unsure,” Horace reconnects with the two of them. In the large man’s hand is a small doll. “Where did you get this?” Anri’s question is only met with Horace pointing towards the corpse of the Archdeacon. “Hm, perhaps it will have answers?” Anri shakes his head before turning back to Sibéal. “It was a pleasure to fight by your side, mi lady. But we must be off.” <br/>	“Of course,” The two knights gird themselves to continue their trek, but her soul burns for them to stay. The only remedy is to speak. “Know you of The Firelink Shine near the Cemetery of Ashe?” Anri looks to Horace for confirmation, who promptly nods in understanding. <br/>“Ah, yes. We passed through it briefly at the beginning of our quest. It is where we must return the body of Aldrich.” <br/>	“The temple provides haven, should you seek respite, I offer its walls to you as consideration for the next steps on your journey.” Sibéal’s eagerness to offer them the location is uncommon of her. These are some of the few people who have not taken up residence there by their own choice, and it is worth it to have those she can trust within reach. Still, it strikes her as an oddity that the offer would bring her such joy to extend. Anri’s helm well guards his visage, but his voice brings tidings of genuine appreciation. <br/>	“We will certainly keep it mind, thank you.” He turns his attention back to Aldrich’s empty sarcophagus, “Clues may yet persist, Horace and I will continue our search here. Aldrich’s trail may be revealed to us.” His dedication admirable, Sibéal gives a courteous nod before departing through the transportive magics of the Bonfire. </p><p> </p><p>	The Watcher’s hand delicately touches the fatal wound. Despite his lighting fast fighting style, this movement is slow. At first it reads as shock, but slowly fades into something akin to acceptance. His eyes meet Sibéal’s. Her duty complete. He knows no malice for her, she is merely another pawn to Flames. He can no longer stand – falling to one knee, and ultimately onto the floor. Dead. A Lord of Cinder felled. Sibéal stands over the fallen sentinel. From what Hawkwood told her, the Watchers were no saints, but the toll of their eternal watch was apparent here. The crazed Watchers… They had succumbed to the Abyss’s madness. Now they would serve the fire again upon their thrown. The first corpses on the pyre. She looks to the Bonfire and retreats to her haven. The Firelink Shrine. The only place in all Lothric she has managed to find rest. Her vision returns, and the magic of the Bonfire has finished transporting her.<br/>A broken chapel of circular design. Ash persists throughout the building – both across the floor and in its ancient colorization. The only light being the dim orange warmth of the central bonfire.  The pillars that support the structure are old, but their strength remains fresh. As she stands in her sanctuary, a violent shot of pain grasps her sword arm. It is not the pain of a wound, or blood loss. It is something internal. Like a maggot had begun gnawing on her marrow. She wordlessly pauses to search for its source. Removing the cloth and armor of her gauntlet and lets her curse-stricken arm be revealed to the flame. Where once, the ash had reborn her as she once was – the Dark Sign has taken its toll after countless defeats. Sickening white veins suffocate the heart they are born from. Her skin now strangles the bones that give them shape. She flexes each individual finger in time with one another. A performance for her curiosity. The hollowing is taking root faster than she thought it might. As long as she has her purpose, she is safe from the affliction of mindlessness that beckons. The pain subsides, and she returns the gauntlet to its post.<br/>Sibéal begins checking off her list of finding the people who assist her on the journey. The Fire Keeper, The Blacksmith, The Thief, her teachers of both Pyromancy and Miracles. It has become something of a routine to find these people and request their assistance or ensure they are comfortable in their various locations in the shrine. Today, Sibéal finds two new figures lingering in the corners of the shrine. Familiar knight’s armor, and the frightful presence of an Executioner. She approaches the knight’s duo. Surprised to see they had actually decided to rest at the Shrine she had offered them. Anri overlooks the center of the Shrine’s central bonfire with a quiet stoicism, while Horace retains his silent intimidation just behind the lad. Sibéal softly takes a spot next to the man. She lets her presence be known with a simple greeting word. <br/>“Welcome,” This stirs Anri. He is quick to express his greetings. <br/>“Ah, we meet again. I am pleased to see you safe.” <br/>“Did luck favor your efforts to find Aldrich?” The fight with the Watchers had left Sibéal warry, but this reunion has her spirits rising once again. She does what she can to be a passable host. <br/>“The man-eater must have left for his true home.” Anri produces the small doll Horace was able to retrieve from the Deacons, “The little doll in the empty coffin told me. Aldrich is said to hail from Irithyll in the Boreal Valley, an ancient fabled city.” Anri pauses. Sibéal cautiously turns to him. His shiny armor glees with from the central fire’s light. “A pilgrim told me that the city lies beyond Farron keep. And so, becomes our destination…” <br/>“This is fortunate timing,” Sibéal declares, “The Watchers have been bested. Your path through Farron should be easier without their swords to hamper you.” <br/>“Truly?” Anri turns toward her, giving her the attention of body and ear. Sibéal gently bobs her head in a nod of acknowledgment. “You are a remarkable warrior to have bested the legion by yourself.” Sibéal’s words are slow, carefully chosen, and somber.<br/>“They had fallen to infighting long before I had arrived. The abyss took its toll on her watchers.” Her heart sinks as she recalls the lack of glory to be shared from her tale. Anri is silent, but she can feel his undivided attention on her. The turmoil blackening her soul compels Sibéal to speak. “There was no glory to be had in their tomb. I am nothing more than an opportune carrion bird.” A moment passes. Anri begins to speak but stifles himself. That was not the correct phrasing. He tries again. <br/>“If I may, mi lady, you criticize unfairly. Though the Legion had noble beginnings their history reveals them to have lost themselves long before you arrived.” Sibéal remains hidden within her armor. It is not the response he sought. “Being Unkindled, as we are, it is not glory we seek. If we were mere glory seekers, the flames would not trust us to do what is necessary to save it. It is your resolve that the Flame trusts. Not the cleverest, or the strongest, but we must be dauntless in our efforts.” Anri quietly reflects after saying this. His own words provoke a small laugh to return for a brief appearance. “I find myself quite unsure of my own resolution in the face of my task…” As he says it, Horace places a mighty gauntlet on his shoulder, sending a surge of resolve toward Anri.  “But that is why I have help.” He turns back to Sibéal, “And so do you. You are valiant, and our path is long. There is no shame is asking for help when the time calls for it. You shall certainly have Horace and I to call upon.” To back up the claim, Horace offers a determined clutched first. It is enough. Sibéal’s posture rises with her lifted burden. <br/>“You are a true knight, Anri of Astora.” His message is true, though his words lacked grace or clear direction, there is something within that burns brighter. The attempt was enough. The reach to comfort was all that was necessary. “I shall think on what you said and look to you when the path becomes fearfully lonesome.” He responds in kind.<br/>“I am glad of it,” the two of them turn back towards the bonfire in the center of the Shrine. Both can feel the heat for the first time. Does the bonfire burn brighter or has another source of heat surged? The glow is just a tinge brighter. A comfortable silence befalls the two. Their journeys and the world outside the shrine ebb away. It is enough to be in this moment and enjoy the warmth of two souls. <br/>Time fades in and out of the Shrine. Ultimately, Anri and Horace push on towards their fabled city. Sibéal watches them go, and the warmth gradually fades back into relying solely on the Bonfire’s embers. The Ashen One makes her way back towards her teacher of Pyromancies. She has questions on the new techniques they found in tomes long forgotten, but her journey is stopped by Yuria. She is a new resident in the Shrine, only appearing after the tragic death of her servant Yoel. An imposing woman. Her hands retain a slyness that Sibéal could never quite trust. She has yet to prove herself an ally though speaks highly of Yoel’s pilgrimage. She is unnerving, but clearly useful. <br/>“Lord,” Yuria’s voice holds a dozen secrets leading to hundreds of plans, “I beg pardon, but I find myself curious to the company thou bid farewell to.” Something akin to protective instinct ignites in the belly of her soul. Her resistance to the question is a gut reaction, but not one she can rightly act on. There is no reason to keep secrets from those of this Shrine. <br/>“He is an unkindled hailing from Astora. Bearing the name of Anri. He is a seeker of Lords, as I am.” Yuria’s face hides behind a mask of metal with beautifully articulate engravings, but Sibéal can see clockwork ticking just behind it. Her next words are deceptively simple. <br/>“I humbly thank your Lordship,” she gives a courteous bow and returns to the pit she crawled from, only turning back to briefly speak, “he seems a fine young man.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Catacombs of Carthus</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The cold stone of the catacombs resounds with the wales of undeath. Creaks of bone and the sliding of rocks have replaced the swamps of Farron Keep. Each step Sibéal takes is cautious. Her hope of moving forward solely rests on the torch she keeps raised. This place is dark and unforgiving if one is too brazen with their movements. Several kunai rest in her back from her last encounter with one of the more powerful skeletons that haunt these halls. If she is taken by surprise again, all her progress will be lost. She rounds another corner. Her torch enters before she. There is no detail not worth taking in. The skulls resting in the walls, the cobwebs that have taken root, and the bones on the floor. It appears safe enough. The Catacombs present her with another flight of stairs deeper into its labyrinth. A faint breath catches on her ear. Some weary soul is here with her in these Catacombs. Or it is some trick. She grips her blade tighter, and guardedly lets her torch illumine the next hall. A radiant glow illumines the familiar shine of a knight’s armor. He has a hand to his temple, and a crumbled posture. Clearly wounded, but still standing. Her heart begins to hope, but there is no way to know this man without approaching. <br/>“Anri?” Her voice pierces the darkness, causing him to stir out of his deliberations. He recognizes her and lets his guard down ever so slightly. <br/>“Oh, hello, how very fortunate. Have you seen my companion, Horace?” Sibéal quickly glances around their hallway for the man. It is the first time she has seen the man without his ally. It is strange. Her lack of response prompts Anri to continue his tale of woe. “To my shame, I was snared by a trap, and we’ve become separated. I’ve not been able to find him since.” <br/>“How awful,” Sibéal thinks back to her trek thus far. There has been no sign of the man. “Forgive me, but I have not seen the man.” <br/>“Yes, I see.” Anri’s voice quakes as he says it. It has been some time since they spoke at the Firelink. He offered her such resolution there. She can feel her ribs shrink their duty as he continues. “Horace is a valiant knight. He can look after himself, no question. He’s probably searching for me right now, with twice the resolve. If you happen upon him, please, tell him that I remain in the catacombs and will lay prism stones to guide him, as always.” Anri removes a glittering stone from his satchel. It glows with a shining yellow. A pathway through the darkness. “Please send him my word. I beg of you.” It is a desperate plea. She cannot help but dissolve under the weight of his request. “May the flames guide your way.” Without hearing her response, Anri begins once again into the catacombs; his desperation outweighing his current health.<br/>“Perhaps we can search together” She calls after him, but his mind is off to the hunt. He does not respond. Sibéal remains standing in the hallway, alone. She observes the glitter of the prism stone one last time before continuing down into the catacomb’s depths. </p><p> </p><p>Sibéal makes one last leap for her life, tucking into a roll as her armor crashes against the shallow waters. She can hear the three massive bolts collide with the trees and stone just outside the little cave she found refuge in. It was fortunate she spied such a cave amid the Smoldering Lake, but now she has no sense of how to proceed. Perhaps the cave could provide her with answers that the Lake and its monstrous crossbow cannon could not. She makes her way into the cave. It is a ruined thing. Her torch providing the only light against craggy stone and murky water. The thick mud below her feet is slowly replaced by hard stone. Eventually the cave opens up into a massive chasm. A circular room with water rising up to her ankles. The stone is damp and old, and it smells of decay. She can see the latter and skeletal watchers resting just above her. She is both father than she has ever been, and right back to where she started. As she takes in the light entering the cave, she hardly notices the lone figure residing in this chasm with her. At first, she believes it to be a shadow, but upon giving it her full attention, the armor becomes clear. A tall man, black executioner armor, and a large halberd. Her spirit begins to renew. Horace. Anri will be pleased to know she found his friend. <br/>“Oh, Horace,” She calls to the man and rapidly begins to approach. “How fortunate I am to have found you, Anri has been frightfully worried.” She reaches the man and places a hand on his shoulder in a familiar gesture of kinship. Horace’s helm sluggishly turns to her. Their eyes meet, and Sibéal’s soul shutters as she bears witness to his fate. Horace’s eyes are black, and hollow. His body fidgets and twitches out of her grasp. With a monstrous below, the man raises his halberd and shield to the sky. He brings the halberd down upon the girl, Sibéal manages to vault backwards in the nick of time. “Horace!” She cries out as Horace continues his reckless charge. “Horace it is a friend!” The halberd swings again, Sibéal raises her shield, but it is not enough. Her body crashes into the low waters. She vaults right from the ground to avoid another attack. “Horace listen to my voice. You must stop this!” She receives only more grunts of agony in response. Finally, Sibéal finds her footing and gets her shield in proper placement. Her eyes fully take in the now hollow Horace. He has no recollection of his past, or who he was. The curse has taken hold. With solemn resolve, Sibéal tightens her grip on her sword and charges towards the creature. </p><p> </p><p>	Anri takes another look over the chasm he stands above. Something draws him to this place. His soul knows that Horace is nearby. Yet, his patience is continuously unrewarded. Doubt gnaws at his mentality. The curse ebbs its way into his heart. He must speak. Perhaps the sound of his own voice will be enough. Enough to cling to himself just that much longer. Long enough to find Horace. “Oh Horace, where have you run off to?” Lothric’s sorrows guide his thoughts, “Have you abandoned me?” He briefly considers it, but the implications are too much. With a violent shake of the head, he expels the thoughts from his mind. “No, what a horrible thought…” Then, a sound. A suit of armor edging its way towards him. Fear pierces his heart and he removes the short sword he has kept sheathed.  From the darkness emerges a familiar helm and suit of armor. Sibéal catches herself on a nearby stalagmite. Her wounds have proven too much to continue her stride. In an instant, Anri is there by her side. He loads her weight onto his body and finds a comfortable spot in the rocky ground to set her down. <br/>“Anri,” her voice is pained, but elated to find the man she has been seeking. Anri delicately removes himself from her side – parting with his own estus flask so that she may heal her wounds. She does drink and once her body is renewed, she is able to say what she must. They have never seen the other’s face, but the presence of the other’s attention can be felt deep within the other’s soul. “I located Horace,” Anri’s response is right on top of hers. <br/>“Where is he? I must know.” Her helm solemnly shakes in refusal.<br/>“First, you must know of his condition,” but Anri will not give her the time. His fears too great. His need too desperate. But she is must prepare him for the sights he will see.<br/>	“Surely it is inconsequential –”<br/>	“Anri, No. I’m afraid that –”<br/>“I beg you Lady Sibéal – If you know where Horace has gone, I must know!” She quietly looks to him after the outburst. Such a passion for things can only be attributed to someone who knows what could happen if Horace was lost for too long. She does not have the heart to tell him that his fears have come true. Sibéal shrinks her in armor and speaks,<br/>“Far below this ridge, past a lake of fire and ancient trees, go east and be quick. Watch for the Giant’s contraption, and duck into a recess near a stumped tree. Inside you will find Horace.” Anri’s hands grip her shoulders with glee. He brings his helmed head into hers for something akin to an embrace. She does not need to see his smile to know it is beaming. Then, her words finally land on him.<br/>“Oh, goodness me. To think there’d be a lake so deep within these catacombs. What a relief.” He leaves her to overlook the chasm one last time. “I knew Horace was alive and wouldn’t stray far.” The words are a string of answered prayers. He does not say them to her, but to the ghost of the man he seeks after. Sibéal can only hope he will forgive her for the victory she won. The creature was no longer Horace, though it did wear his face. “Thank you,” Anri’s voice brings her out of the shame. “We are both in your debt.” From Anri’s pack, he produces a small ring of black opal. On its center is a single slit, like that of a drake’s eye, and it hums with power over life. “This hardly expresses my gratitude, but it’ll have to do for now. Please take it.” The estus flask having completed its healing, Sibéal stands to accept the token. In return she returns the flask to Anri. She had barely stood by the time Anri is hustling away from her, so eager to find his comrade. “And may the Flames Guidey your way.” He says this as he goes, leaving Sibéal only to wave as she watches him go. Her voice is broken. She does not know how he will respond to the slain body of Horace. If she’s lucky, his vengeance for Horace’s death will come second to their shared duty.</p><p>	A miasma of misery pursues The Ashen One back to her shrine. The defeat of High Lord Wolnir was her swiftest victory to date, but Horace’s lifeless face remains at the back of her mind. Dejected and lost, she makes her way through the various people she has collected. In the faintly flooded lower levels of the shrine, a particular resident has taken up a position near out of view. He calls himself Greirat, of the undead settlement. The man is humble and swift of speech. He speaks low and apologetically, though his age and skill at thievery would mean he has lived a full life. He is huddled among the trinkets, oddities, and weapons he successfully stole. Though his face is safe behind a mask of servants and shame, his body raises with delight as she makes her approach. <br/>	“Oh, hello, you’ve come at a good time. It took some prowling, but I finally made a score. Go on, have a gander.” An enthusiastic hand begins to show off what he’s procured. Sibéal finds herself deeply lacking the joy the thief radiates. Grierat takes notice of her silence towards his goods and offers her his quiet attention. The loss of Loretta continues to bleed him of bliss. If anyone could know the pain of losing kin, it would be him. Still, Sibéal is unsure of where to begin. <br/>	“I have slain my friend, Grierat.” It is a slow start, but she must confess it to someone. “I know not what to do about it.” The man retains the poise of a monkey as he finds a more comfortable position in which to converse. <br/>	“Taken by the curse, eh?” She gives a solemn nod to confirm the conjecture. “Yes, I have seen it taken many a good soul. None of them deserve such a fate.” The little man reaches for her, touches the hem of her plated armor. A genuine sign of humanity amidst the dreay waters around them. “Listen to this old thief when he tells you, there was nothing to be done. By slaying the one you once knew, countless other lives may yet be spared. One more day is sometimes the greatest gift you can give another in these times.” The words bludgeon her doubts with warmth and comfort. Sibéal rests her hand on top of his and subtly grips. He is cold to the touch, with the grey skin befitting one who lives in the shadows. Despite this, they maintain a true connection for a sacred moment. Yuria’s practiced and patient voice ends the scene with talk of other matters. <br/>	“My Lord and Liege,” it is not a request for her attention, nor is it a demand. Simply an alluring call that Sibéal cannot help but hinder to. She thanks Grierat for his words and wishes him well – with a promise to examine the wears as soon as she is able. With life back in her step, she finds her way to Yuria’s shadow. The woman’s sleek height would leave the men she has met thus far envious of her genetics. “Rememberest thou whence I was introduced to the youth Anri of Astora?” Sibéal’s mind cannot fathom from where that introduction could lead. Her body recoils just a tinge. “He is hollow and will join thee in wedlock.” Yuria pauses to give her room to speak, but she has yet to decide how to respond. The news comes rather quickly, especially given what the boy has recently gone through. Without a response from her lord, Yuria continues. “A fellow of mine guides him at this moment. When the time is ripe, thou mayest make thy salutations. For what Lord taketh no spouse?” The devilish curl Yuria wears with the final sentiment can be felt from miles away. <br/>	“I presume you have not spoken to Anri on this plan.” They are the first words Sibéal can wrap her tongue around. “For what purpose do you propose this plan?” <br/>	“Patience, Lord.” Yuria slinks back to the dim crevasse she is so found of haunting. Though the Dark Sigil has turned skin to ash, her humanity wretches against the plots Yuria has dreamed into existence. Sibéal’s thoughts turn to Anri, and what the question of what he’s agreed to.</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Anor Londo</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Another murderous wind streaks across Sibéal’s face. The fleeting seconds of respite from the cold are always replaced by the burning adrenaline of survival. The moonlit shadows and delicate snow of this land have proven to be traitors in the face of its danger. The pontiff’s knights are voracious in their attacks, combined with the deceitful architecture that hind all manner of cur willing to strike. There is no honor in this place of the lost, and certainly no safety. That is, until she arrives at this church’s doorway. Her plated foot gracelessly clanks against the stone tiles. Her sword enters well before she, keeping a combative stance. This is not a place to be trusted. Her eye subtly catches the rows of frozen fazes standing just to the left. A serious of stone statues that look far to human to be a coincidence. She watches each of them individually for the glowing eyes of the wretched people of this city. Any one of the statues could hold another murderous creature and she has come too far to take chances now. Though she sees none of the shadows from before, Sibéal’s eyes do catch one oddity among the statues. It does not strike, nor make any attempt to break its disguise. It is a thought for another time. Once she knows she is safe. Ancient sorcery tickles the back of her eyes; there is a creature among the statues. Perceiving the church as something of a rest bed, she turns her attention to the nearby bonfire just ahead of her. A very welcome sight in a very unwelcoming place. With conviction dwindling and exhaustion looming, she ignites the flames and enjoys their warmth. From the fire’s shadows, a figure stands against the sanctified stained-glass window. She cannot recognize the figure and must approach with caution in her heart. The light of the flames eventually reveals the broken armor of Anri. Sibéal’s eyes are forced open with recognition and she quickly steps to him. <br/>	“Anri,” A customary Astora bow is in order. He is a beacon of warm hope is this frozen nightmare. Anri is slow to revive from his stupor, but life returns quickly as he recognizes her presence. <br/>	“Oh, I thought it might be you,” his voice transforms into a vital drink that quenches her fatigue. “Good to see you.” <br/>	“And you as well. I – ” It is in this moment that Sibéal recalls where she left him. Her murder of Horace seizes her tongue and freezes her posture. Unsure of where to proceed, Anri rescues her from the guilt. His words are hasty and chosen without thought. <br/>	“I never managed to find Horace,” She does not know why he lies, or if he truly was unable to follow her directions. Maybe he is simply sparing her from her own tortuous mentality. Regardless she lets him continue. “But my duty must be done, even alone. As an unkindled Lordseeker” His words are as much for himself as they are for her. Horace’s death must be weighing on his fortitude. Her humanity leaps towards him, wishes to cradle and hold his body and whisper tidings of salvation. But such an act is impossible in this dying realm. Then, he says what she did not expect. An admission of the place he came from. “For the children I knew, bless their souls. We all have our reasons, don’t we?” <br/>	“Indeed, we do.” It is the first acknowledgement Sibéal allows herself. “I pray the Great Swamp is proud to call me among their people.” They both settle into the quiet warmth of the other’s presence. Anri must be low. If there was ever a moment to find a way to save him from the curse, it would be now. “Tis’ a difficult request, but I would ask your tale.” The question is left for Anri to speculate. Unsure of how to answer, Sibéal resolves to begin her own and inspire his tale to follow. She lets her gauntlet remove the face plate she has worn for so long and feel the biting chill ebb across her face. With an inviting hand, she leads Anri to the warmth of the bonfire and the two sit. “I am Sibéal of the Great Swamp. Born to pyromancers whom Lothric proclaimed heretical to the church.” Sibéal recounts what she can of her past and the damnation brought upon her by those who saw the destructive power of pyromancy. Her life. The pride in her father when she showed such aptitude to learn the art. Her ultimate death. “But what they fail to grasp is that pyromancy creates life as much as it burns the earth. When the time came for the princes Lothric and Lorian to give themselves to the First Flame, they denied. Their selfish desire to abandon the Flame was my opportunity to prove our worth to Lord Gwyn. twas’ I who sought to prove my clan’s worth with my own sacrifice to the first flame.” Sibéal laughs in spite of her failure. “A shame my soul was barely worth a single ember.” Anri listens to her tale with a quiet resolve. He does not comment or question, merely listen in. It is clear her life has been tragically marked by failure. Yet, she is here. The failures have served her rather than deter. <br/>	“You are brave indeed, mi lady. To face your duty alone. I would do well to learn from you.” The undead skin of her lips flashes upward into a smile at his praise. <br/>	“While I take pride in my solitary duty, I would be lost if I did not have the help of allies such as yourself.” Sibéal takes the moment to shuffle her body, and readjust for a modicum of comfort here on this stone floor. “There, I have shared my tale. Would yours be too much to ask?” Anri recedes. He allows his own faceplate to be lifted and reveal the hollow man underneath. His skin dried to the bone and eyes dark. He is of the undead, but far from lost. <br/>	“My path is haunted by failurings as well, although it seems I have much to learn from it.” Anri begins. He stumbles over the occasional word, and finds it difficult to articulate all the details, but his effort is more than enough for her. “I was to be devoured as a child. Aldich’s hunger had grown so monstrous that entire villages were offered to his gluttony. I remember the children who stood by me when our time had come. But I fled. I was one of the quicker ones, and they bore resentment to me for my successful escape. How could they not? To know that I lived while they perished – the thought weighs on me heavily.” Anri continues through his journey with a more relaxed calm. The nightmare he survived early on remains something difficult to broach but he braves it. For her. His ultimate joining with Horace. The battles they embarked on together. And the final quest he was given: To become one of the enkindled. His duty clear. To face the horrors he buried in the past, and fight for the children whom he left behind. He concludes with an apologetic sentiment. “A coward I began, but my tale shall not end the way it started. I am sure of that.” <br/>	“I disagree,” Sibéal’s response was not the message she intended, and quickly follows it up, “you did not begin a coward Anri of Astora. After hearing your tale, it is my belief that you possess a spark of life rarely seen among humans.” <br/>	“Your words are kind,” Anri quietly stares into the bonfire’s flickering embers, “but you did not hear their screams, nor see their faces. Bless them all for the suffering they earned for the sin of being born.” Sibéal says nothing more. They remain there. A meter apart, but so distant from one another. What use is another’s body heat if both are cold and dead?  The echoes of the wind and haunted faces on the statues beckon to Sibéal. She has spent enough time here. She must move on soon. With a quiet resolve, she stands from the fire and clamps her face plate down.<br/>	“Pontiff Sulyvahn stands between us and Aldrich. He must be removed.” Gone is her tender voice, now she speaks with the conviction of a soldier. <br/>	“He is a powerful foe.” Anri joins her. They stand together, the flames of triumph brimming against their armor. “He is armed with both foul sorceries and twin blades.” <br/>	“Then we will be cautious. But we will face him together.” She offers her assertive gauntlet to him, to which the man vigorously takes. They stand together in a silent vow of victory. Their armor heavy upon their bodies again, Anri looks to his exit. <br/>	“I shall venture ahead and meet you at the Pontiff’s Cathedral. Irithyll’s nightmares are far from finished with us.” Sibéal gives a grave nod in understanding. “May the Flames guide your way.” Though fear insists she only drove a wedge between their kinship, Anri walks on with a newfound determination. His insistence to continue despite his shortcomings is what marks his knighthood – more than any whom have come across her path. Sibéal breaks her trance on Anri’s fleeting memory, inspired by remembering the creature hiding among the stone statues. Finding her way through the figures tucked in the corner of the church, there is a clear distinction between the others and the one she currently focuses on. While the stonework is perfect, it is set apart from the others. Its face ever so slightly altered, and hands positioned in an offset manner. It is off putting. Without assurance of a response, Sibéal aims her sword at the sculpture and speaks.<br/>	“Reveal yourself. Immediately.” In a panic, the statue’s composure breaks and transforms. Where once there was but stone and clay, the form of a sorcerer takes its place. A pilgrim – like Yoel before her. She wears the regalia of Londor, along with the signature turtle’s shell so common among their people. As soon as she is revealed, the pilgrim throws herself at Sibéal’s feet. Her voice is shrilled and frightful, as though she is constantly on the verge of a scream.<br/>	“Oh, my, you…!” Her recognition of her Lord leaves her stumbling and unable to speak in complete thoughts. “But…. I’m afraid we require more time.” Her words leave Sibéal lost to their meaning, and so she desperately tries to appease her lord with better ones. “As long as it takes a dark droplet to fall, that is all. Our Gracious Lord…” Sibéal has never asked to be called Lord. Yoel did so out of gratitude as far she can tell. Yuria and this pilgrim’s recognition of her regality are off putting. <br/>	“Stand woman,” Sibéal helps the pilgrim to her knees so they at least may speak face to face. “Your Lord has questions of you.” <br/>	“Of…. Of course Lord. You will find me but a humble slave.” <br/>	“Speak quickly then, what were you doing here?” Taking to her feet, the pilgrim supports her weight on the staff she carries. The pilgrim marvels at her work with a delightful cackle. <br/>	“As Yuria instructed, it was I who led the youth Anri of Astora to this meek church. For the length of his journey, I have guided the boy with whisper and suggestion until he was all but dependent on my instruction.”<br/>	“To what end?” Sibéal’s question comes quickly and harshly. Security for her ally must be paramount in this moment – far above civility. <br/>	“Why… To join with you, gracious Lord. A spouse for a Lord.” <br/>	“Anri seems to have very little awareness of our union. What act of wedlock has one of its precession be so unawares?” The pilgrim does her best to explain while not offending her lord. <br/>	“It… Does not require the boy’s knowledge.” It is said as if Sibéal should have already known that. “Surely you know of the act. When you plunge the Sword of Avowal into –” The name’s recognition to Sibéal mandates a visceral response.<br/>	“The Sword of Avowal?” <br/>	“Yes Lord.” <br/>	“The blade will eternally end Anri’s existence!” She spits these words out as if they could be at all shocking to the pilgrim. <br/>	“The blade will unite your souls. You shall be bound together. Lord and spouse. Is the title of Hollow Lord not worth a single extinguished flame?”<br/>	“Anri is not to be sacrificed. Not for any cause.” Sibéal unsuccessfully invokes her title as Lord.<br/>	“I am sorry Lord,” The pilgrim shakes her cloaked head. “Yuria has given the order. Once I ready the alter, and prepare the body, it shall be your duty to –” The pilgrim is cut off once again. Her lord remains stoic and hidden inside her helm. Despite her stature, it is clear that this is not what her lord wanted to hear. Again, she is cut off by Sibéal’s desperation. <br/>	“How many does Yuria have working on this venture?” <br/>	“Just I, gracious Lord.” <br/>	“Then I offer you this, pilgrim.” Sibéal raises her sword once again, this time, placing the tip squarely on the pilgrim’s shoulder. “Walk away. Abandon thine duty and depart Anri of Astora.” <br/>	“Why do you test my resolve Lord?” Confusion streaks itself across the pilgrim’s posture and she shakes the sword off her body. “No, I shall not abandon Londor or my Lady Yuria. There shall be a wedding this night.” Sibéal knows the loyalty of Londor well. There truly is no way to convince this woman to leave. There is only once choice to save her friend. <br/>	“Then I deeply apologize for my actions.” A quick slice of the sword, and it is over.</p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Pontiff Sulyvhan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Wordlessly, the two Seekers take in the other. The Pontiff’s fallen knights behind them, the wall of white mist in front. Irithyll’s moon hangs heavy overhead and the snow has slowed into a slight dusting. Blues and whites paint a beautifully serene picture, but there is no time to pay it homage. It is a difficult thing to see each other has they are now. Anri’s armor was shiny and new on the Road of Sacrifices. Now the blood of battles won and lost and lessons learned have tarnished its shine. The shield of Astora weighs nothing now, for it is more natural in his grip than without it. His sword dulled from countless battles, yet still trustier than any living ally. Sibéal’s armor has always been lighter, relaying on her deftness rather than fortitude, but she too wears the scars of the past heavy on her. Her connection to pyromancy so much deeper than she ever dreamed would be necessary. The Dark Sigil sapping her humanity ever further with each failure. They are both heavily burdened and long past enervation. Their alliance serves to strengthen their resolve and share this affliction with another. They are not ready to face this foe yet face him they must. Sibéal places her hand against the white fog and presses inward.<br/>
The Pontiff’s cathedral welcomes them in with warm colors and well-placed pews. The building stretches nearly to the sky. Luxurious carpentry, pristine painting, and grand architecture all serve as distraction from the Pontiff standing in the center of it all. His body towering, and armor pristine. He carries twin blades of might and magic. One coursing with the fires of faith while the other radiates with the dark magics of sorcery. No conversation is needed as the two warriors stand ready to face down the tyrant of Irithyll.<br/>
The Pontiff opens his attack with an unstoppable leap forward. Sibéal takes a dive into the pews on her right, Anri catches the blade against his shield. The edge of flamed sword crushes Anri with the full weight of its wielder but before the attack is complete, a raging fire burns against the Pontiff’s backside. Sibéal’s fist retains the smoke of the Chaos Flame that she summoned. The Pontiff recognizes now, the boy is the distraction – it is the woman he must strike down first. She is able to hit hard, but her vitality is lower. He will hunt her. Abandoning the boy, he leaps across his cathedral to strike at her down. The dark blade narrowly misses its mark. She is nimble. He follows his first attack with a series of slashes from both blades though is left wanting. While his attention is focused on the girl, the boy returns with a well-timed upper cut. It did not hold the sting of the ancient witch’s chaos flame, but the wound is concerning. Summoning the dark energies he has mastered the Pontiff unleashes a wave of power to knock both of his opponents to their backs. In that moment, he finds the woman and unleashes another onslaught. She isn’t fast enough this time. Several of the attack streak across her body leaving her nearly finished. Sulyvhan eagerly strikes to finish her off but is blindsided by the woman’s pyromancy. In a desperate attempt to protect herself, she voluntarily took his hits and hurdled a chaos flame into his sternum. The pain is enough to send him recoiling. In that brief staggered moment, the boy returns to strike his person. He must focus on the boy again lest the child finish him off – giving the woman time to recover. With a wild swing, Sulyvhan sees the opportunity to strike down Anri only to find his sword arm wildly swing out of position. The boy used his shield to not only protect himself, but aggressively parry the attack. Sulyvhan’s weapons left out of position, the boy plunges his blade into his chest. Blood rises in Sulyvhan’s throat and the realization of defeat looms on the horizon. He is not beaten yet.<br/>
Anri and Sibéal find each other again on the battlefield. The battle has gone in their favor thus far, but Sulyvhan remains standing. With the dark powers at his disposal, the Pontiff splits his body into two. One form a shimmering clone of dark magics, the other his true form. The battlefield has become an even fight.<br/>
“Stay alive,” is all the strategy Sibéal can offer and takes off across the cathedral’s circumference. The true Pontiff sees this and immediately leaps towards her while his magical clone whips his blades in a flashy display of swordsmanship. Sibéal takes another hurdle away from the Pontiff’s attacks. He is no longer playing with her. She does not have the time or room to summon her pyromancy. It is up to her blade. Her eye spies Anri enduring the monstrous attacks from the Pontiff’s clone. They have to finish quickly, or the Pontiff’s magics will end their attempt on his life. Gripping the hilt of her blade, Sibéal ends her last vault with facing against the Pontiff. Their eyes meet behind their respective helms and she waits for him to strike. Sulyvhan assaults her with alarming reach but her speed is too much for it. A quick tumble underneath the blade gives her the opportunity she needed to steal two quick gashes across his side. Sulyvhan’s response to quickly smite her away with the tip of his blade. Though it was a fraction of the damage he could do, the attack launches her prone. She’s tired and running low on the magics required for pyromancy. She remains on the ground a second longer than she can afford and is punished with another swipe from the Pontiff’s blade. Blood stains the carpentry. She must recover some health if she is to succeed. Finding Anri again, she raises from the ground fast and breaks for his position. Anri ducks underneath another swipe from the magical clone’s blades, but the second is faster than he thought. Misjudging the timing, his muscles tense as he is sent to the floor. He wakes himself with a violent shake of the head and watches as Sibéal vaults over him towards the clone. She is trading dance partners, though someone should tell the Pontiff that as she now has the ire of both the Pontiff and his clone. Anri climbs back into the fight. For a time, Sibéal must perform a mad dash of quick dodges and short leaps. She cannot dodge all of them, but she can move enough to keep herself alive. With a sliver of life sticking to her bones, she is able to keep the duo’s attention long enough for Anri to strike at the true Pontiff. Their foe’s switched, it is far easier for Sibéal to evade and recover while keeping the clone off of Anri. Now the knight and pontiff tangle. A considerable number of Sulyvhan’s attacks actually connect with Anri, but the knight is undeterred. His shield arm is strong and his counterattack deadly. They keep each other at a distance, but Sulyvhan has the benefit of his great height. Anri has chipped his health low. All combatants are hanging on by threads and the fate of this battle will be decided by the next successful maneuver. With the last of her abilities, Sibéal summons one last chaotic flame in her fist. She’s garnered enough ground from the clone to begin the rite, but it is closing fast. The orb is flung across the cathedral floor, aimed directly at the Pontiff’s chest. Sulyvahn victoriously shifts his body out of its path, pleased at his perception, only to find his body impaled upon the tip of Anri’s short sword. Sulyvhan’s body collapses into ash and mist. He leaves only a monstrous wail as his final echo in this world before his flame is snuffed out. His life ended; the clone vanishes into the magics that spawned it before it can finish off Sibéal.<br/>
The victors stand exhausted and bloodied. Though the battle is over, the adrenaline demanded to ignore fatal wounds and fight like demons remains. Anri and Sibéal mark each other from across the cathedral. Powerless against herself, Sibéal removes her helm and carelessly throws it to the ground. Her flesh shines with sweat in the bright light of this cathedral, her hair curled by the humidity of her amor. Likewise, Anri drops the sword and shield that were welded to his hands mere seconds ago. Pulled together through their exhaustion, they meet at the newly formed bonfire where the Pontiff’s body once was. Their breaths are labored and heavy as they both take in the fire’s new glow. The battle won, rest is secured. Now is the time for Anri to speak his thoughts since the last time they met.<br/>
“I wish to apologize for – ” his sentiment is cut short as Sibéal tells him everything she needs to. In a motion befitting one as dexterous as her, she lifts Anri’s face plate and finds her mouth unceremoniously pressed to his. The decay of this world has worn both of their bodies into morbid husks, but this does not stop the act of passion. The sweat and adrenaline still pumping and for the briefest of moments, their hearts begin to beat again. A subtle rhythmic echo that finds each other perfectly in time. The clatter of armor removed in haste and tearing of cloth to be closer to one another can be heard through the cathedral’s halls. The two seem to be oblivious to the outer world in this moment though. They press deeper towards one another. Just an inch closer. Just one more touch. For all this land has stolen, it is this moment that they take. Each heated breath and lustful motion are taken as though it is their last act in this realm. The warm glow of the bonfire shines against the ever-falling snow of Irithyll. While the denizens and monsters cry out and hunt, nothing can touch the two souls now mingled together for the briefest of moments to provide more than respite.</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Aldrich, The Devourer of Gods</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The gate’s guardians vanquished, Sibéal takes another step up the magnificent staircase. With a clean swipe of her blade, their blood is shed onto the tiled ground. The moon’s light paints the entire city with a mystical blue color. An ancient and mighty structure now lies at her feet, ready for her conquest. Once the crown jewel of the gods, it is now a broken ruin plagued by monsters and madmen. The silver knights continue their duty despite this and have proven themselves dauntless foes. Sibéal grips the arrow shaft currently imbedded into her shoulder and rips it from her tissue. The pain is minor compared to what she’s endured thus far. It took considerable work to even get the castle doors open, but now the way is clear. Her path to another Lord of Cinder set, and her flask brimming with second chances for the mistakes she’ll make. She takes another step inward only for a new light to steal her attention. There, by the foot of the door is a gleaning stone. A guiding light for friend and foe. A closer inspection grants her recognition. It is the little stone Anri left for Horace to find him. He has beaten her here. Her fingers tighten, and the sounds of battle fill her ears. He has already begun his duel with Aldrich. <br/>	Anri lowers his shield once the wave of arrows clears. What manner of beast is it that can summon an armada’s worth of arrows from nothing? Aldrich twists and writhes as the corpse of his last meal flits about atop his vile form. Anri came for the monster whose horrific appetite haunts the waking world, but he did not expect the saint’s power to be so augmented. Truly, he has become a devourer of gods. The abomination rears back with its cruel spear – the weapon accumulating power from dark magics – and then it charges with unrivaled speed. Anri’s astonishment paralyzes him for all too brief a moment. Then, he is tackled to the ground and out of harm’s way in the final moments before impact. From the ground, his rescuer rolls into a crouched position and launches a bolt of flame back towards Aldrich. The Devourer finds the pyromancy amusing, though its flame singes his body. Anri’s vision lands on Sibéal and he hauls himself back into a standing position. Together they take a defensive stance and wait to see what their foe will do next. <br/>	“I thought it might be you,” the levity of gratitude leaves their air a little lighter, “Then I’m afraid Horace is…” She desperately wishes to know where that thought was leading, but he cuts himself off in favor of a focused assault. “No, this only bolsters my resolve. Please, lend me your strength. Help me vanquish Aldrich, the man-eating fiend.” A quiet hatred for their foe brews within Anri’s words. Sibéal summons another burst of flame into a hand and readies her sword in the other. A silent promise to each other is proclaimed. They will never rest until this creature is obliterated. <br/>	The battle is less a duel to the death and more akin to warfare. Pyromantic energies clash as the founder of the Deep’s cathedral brings his full might to bear against a fabled Ashen One. Arni’s faithful sword battles against weapons forged by the gods, and the contest holds no clear winner. There is no time for strategy and even less time to catch one’s breath. Aldrich’s slug like body crawls and rampages its way across the battlefield and covers his weaknesses with powerful magics. The duo’s maneuverability and chemistry on the battlefield keep them alive through the thick of his attacks. Sibéal’s acrobatic fighting style runs parallel to Anri’s unyielding attacks. They weave in and out of the other’s abilities, keeping time and pace to deliver sustained attacks against Aldrich’s body. Together they edge ever closer towards their goal. Adritch’s life slips from his grasp until a final twinned attack cuts right through his putrid flesh. Death takes hold, and Aldrich loses his weapon. The large spear clanks to the ground, shortly followed by the partially devoured corpse stuck in Aldrich’s maw. His final meal. In all too brief a moment, the beast is felled and Anri is left triumphant over the nightmares of his past. The moment hangs heavy in the air. For Sibéal, this was another beast on the long road to save the First flame. To Anri, this was everything. To see the corpse of Aldrich is too much. He cannot speak. He can barely breath. Each breath feels lighter than the last. He has never known such joy – such elation – as this moment. Finally, he finds the words to address Sibéal though it is difficult to speak through his high. <br/>	“I owe this to you. Thank you. Truly.” She cannot respond in that moment. Anri takes the opportunity to breath deep. His gaze turns upwards and he speaks to ghosts. “Horace… We’ve done it.” His voice raises an octave as it is overwhelmed by emotion. “We really have.” Sibéal longingly touches the plate on his arm. He turns back to her with victory brimming over his shoulders. <br/>	“What shall become of you?” Her question brings the hall’s mood back to morbid reality in which they live. <br/>	“My duty is done, and my journey ended.” it is an easy enough fact to state, but the implications set wildfires in Sibéal’s soul. “I shall… wither, like all of our kind are prone to. I can already feel the curse growing in my heart.” He is correct but that makes it no less painful to hear. She cracks under the realization that he shall be gone. Gone. And there is nothing she can do for it. “My final choice shall be the location which I hollow.” <br/>	“I see,” It is Sibéal’s turn to quiver. Though rather than the shaky voice of joy Anri held, she cannot help but give over to her sorrow. With what little fortitude she has left, she tries to be strong for him. “It is a noble thing you do, I merely… …” What’s the point of the words if they will not change anything? How can she speak such futilities? Anri’s hand tenderly graces her shoulder. A soundless plea for her to continue. “I foolishly held out hope that perhaps… I could have proven enough to cling to. I prayed my side was purpose enough to see you through. That…  I was enough.” An accomplished warrior she may be, but in this moment she is shattered.. Her shoulders are shrunken and her body on the verge of collapse. Anri gently places his head against hers in recognition of all they have shared. The world’s they have traversed, and the challenges they weathered together. He knows what he wants to say, but it may only serve to hurt her further. He must speak. He owes her that much. His voice is barely above a whisper. The triumph of the day is replaced by a grievous goodbye. <br/>	“As did I. Forgive me,” The two keep their helms nestled against one another. Aware that nothing could be said in this moment. Among the rubble of this once holy place they are petrified. They do not move – anything more than their shaken breaths would prove too much of a distraction. To say more would risk emotional scars that need not be. The silence is their vow to one another. The broken chapel their alter. Yuria’s wedding was not to be, but this ceremony stands on hallowed ground. Sibéal teeters between relishing this moment and dreading the next. May he stay one more twinkling. May she feel his touch one last time. Excess is an impossibility. But the moment must come, and it does. Their skulls pull apart from one another and allow their eyes one last view. The scars and scorchings of their journey have left their bright eyes dulled and sword arms strong. Her soul wales against her mind demanding he stay. She swallows all such notions and stands to see him off. With an honorable bow she bids him farewell, one in which he returns with equal admiration. Anri fills his lungs once again then turns away from her. He marches out of the cathedral’s door and has immediately transformed himself into a memory. Sibéal lets her composure break once he is gone from sight. Her legs can no longer carry her weight. She silently screams in agony – unable to properly voice her pain. A long, broken moment passes on the cathedral’s floor. With silent resolve, she grips her sword tight once again. As she stands to return to her journey a mystical force greets her. A divine light encircles her body and snakes itself around her armor with glyphs denoting its purpose. In a flash, Sibéal is gone from the cathedral, and placed in a different one. <br/>This church is darkened and marked by a bloodstained carpet. Sibéal’s head shifts back and forth in a desperate attempt to recognize this place or why she has been summoned here. It is changed since she was first here, but finally it comes back to her. The cathedral at Lothric’s high wall. The kindly high priestess who gave her passage to the Undead Settlement. Sibéal turns on her heel to find the woman again only to freeze at the sight of her. The Priestess lies on the sanctified floor with her own blood scattered across its shallow steps. Life quickly ebbs away from her. Sibéal rushes to aid, but the Priestess raises a hand to stop her. There is no hope for her life. Sibéal waits as the Priestess speaks. <br/>“Prince Lothric… Is in your hands…” Her words are near slurring; the blood in her mouth obscuring the words. “Please, save his soul.” Sibéal’s mind is too tortured to be sure of what she means.<br/>“I do not understand – ” But the Priestess interrupts to speak her final words.<br/>“Tell him what he must be.” For the final moment, the Priestess finds Sibéal’s eyes and speaks directly to her soul. “A Lord.” Then she expires. The woman fades into ash as her soul departs and Sibéal is left holding naught but air. The act happened too quickly. The Ashen One left to scrabble for answers among the dust and blood. All that is left where the Priestess one was is a sacred basin. A bowl prepared by the gods as a key to the Lothric castle. She takes the basin into her hands but is cut off from its use. The wind is abruptly sucked from the room, and its candles snuffed out. From the roof comes teardrops of dark magics. The splash against the tiled floor directing Sibéal’s attention to the roof. The drops originated from a swirling mass of dark energy forming in the cathedral’s high windows. From the mass is birthed a monstrous creature – its head the first piece of it to escape. The creature writhes and wiggles its stalky body free of the magics and eventually collides against the cathedral floor. It looks humanoid, but it has long since cast off its humanity. Shimmering silver scaled armor and twin blades rest in its hands. The blades mirror those of Pontiff Sulyvhan being of both fire and darkness. The creature’s helm is a metal prison paired next to a graceful translucent veil. The monster takes a crouched position to fight though its true height is well beyond Sibéal’s. As the abomination comes into full view, Sibéal feels her soul leap towards it. She knows this creature. She will have to fight, but she is so tired. Tired of the pain. Exhausted by the journey. There is nowhere for her to run, and nowhere she can recover. Hatred replaces her exhaustion and she prepares herself once again. <br/>“I know you creature,” She speaks to it as one does a tiresome relative, “I feel your pain. It is kin to mine own.” The Dancer gives an inaudible screech in response to this. “You lost someone, did you not?” Sibéal continues to speak, unafraid to approach its deadly blades. “Someone dear to you? Someone you thought could redeem this life you hold? But this realm is not worth redeeming. It is barely worth fighting for.” The creature does not strike. Though the fight is upon them, their souls speak to one another. They speak of pain. And they speak of love. “We are stuck in an eternal cycle of tragedy. Cursed by the sin of birth.” Sibéal places her sword confidently to her side and alights a flame of chaos in the other hand. “Face me. Your torment is at an end. Be reunited with your lamented.” The battle is on, and the Dancer moves to attack. Sibéal is ready for it.</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Ludleth The Exile</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The embers of the Shrine’s bonfire give rise to body and form. Sibéal is summoned to this place of protection with a stoic quiet and broken heart. She holds two mighty souls in her possession. The first belongs to Aldrich. Monster that he is, his soul is strong and its properties may yield a powerful weapon. The second belongs to the Dancer of the Boreal Valley. A victim of the Pontiff’s madness and damned soul. Much like she is. With these two souls and the power she has accumulated from countless battles since she last visited the Shrine, she must seek out the only Lord of Cinder worthy of the title: Ludleth. The small man is capable of incredible enchantments with the proper souls, and his guidance has been invaluable on her way. He is an incredibly small creature. His crown far too large for his head, and his body all but burnt to ash. The robes he wears are humble, though lined with gold. He seems to be frozen in a contemplative pose. Perhaps the pose is befitting considering he always has something knowledgeable to say.<br/>
“Hail and well met, Ludleth,” Sibéal says the name with fading energy. Her voice mimics a dried throat on a chilled day. Still, he is a Lord and must be given the respect the title brings.<br/>
“Ahh, well met.” He seems in strong spirits this day, a welcome change from recent tragedies. “Knowest thou the name Anri of Astora?” Sibéal freezes at the mention. Her heart chokes on her lungs and she cannot bear to answer. Ludleth carries on with his duty. “The brave lad left this, as thanks.” The little lord raises Anri’s sword with feeble strength and shaking arms. Sibéal is quick to unburden him of the weapon and she marvels at its metal. Ludleth follows with his usual contemplative tone, “Though gave no elucidation…” He gives Sibéal the space to continue her examination of the blade. It is clear he does not know the full weight of the gift, and so he chooses silence over conversation. Finally, Sibéal accepts the sword and sheaths it to her side. A worthy partner to the blade she currently carries. “So.” Ludleth returns to what he knows. “Happened upon any twisted souls?” The abrupt subject change sends Sibéal into a solemn chuckle, but she is happy to talk of other matters.<br/>
As their transaction completes, and Sibéal is prepared to find her other mentors to progress the duty she holds dear. She accepts the new weaponry and turns away from Ludleth. “Now, heed this little warning, from this little lord.” The words grip at her heels and prevent her from fleeing. “Seek not the boy. He knoweth his faith. What will become of him upon his duty’s end. He would not wish thee follow him.” Desperation snatches Sibéal’s throat and she turns back to the Lord.<br/>
“Why do we do this, Lord Ludleth?” Her sentence was childishly vague, she continues without a response. “Why pursue the flame, over and over again? Certainly, it is not for the benefit of the Undead. Are we not but kindling? Perhaps it is for the gods so that they may create. But the gods are long since dead. I have seen their corpses devoured. Why must we continue this existence when it only ensures continued suffering?” Ludleth falls into a discomforting silence. He is careful with his words and thoughts, but Sibéal’s desperation is suffocating. She maintains composure until he is able to answer.<br/>
“An age of fire is the age we art born to.” He begins slowly, but his conviction strengthens with each additional word. “The flames consumed my body and burned away my soul. Twas not an act I did for others. No. Not for all of Gwyn’s splendor. My body burned because I had the faith to look beyond the flame. Ages come and go, Ashen One, but existence is a fire that can only be snuffed once. I did not have the answers, but there would come a time some soul did. Do not look upon this land and perceive it as all there ever shall be. Be diligent and strong. Thou hast already given back the Firekeeper her eyes, a feat that few others have even considered. Thoust journey is not set in stone, but an ever-winding path that rewards those who seek new answers rather than ancient ones.” His words succeed once again in bringing comfort to a realm without such. Sibéal has no words but has an inkling. She nods her head to the Lord’s words and returns to her duties. His words are not the comfort she thought she needed, but it is at least something to dwell on. No matter. Anri’s last request was for her not to pursue him, and so she will cling to memories and push on.<br/>
The snows of Anor Londo greet Sibéal with the deceptive beauty she has come to expect of the place. There are secrets to be found in its streets and crannies. It will be a worthy exercise before she pushes further onto her journey. She summons near the intricate frozen fountain. It is the first bit of respite offered by the city, and a holds the great lie of a peaceful journey. The Pontiff’s knights lay just up the road, his monstrous hound across the bridge behind. Her quarry unknown, it would be better for her to start now. Sibéal ascends the stairs ready to face the horrors that lay beyond them but is stopped by a curiosity.<br/>
Peering through the gleaming snow and frozen backdrop comes the wandering spirit who always seems to greet her as she enters this place. His armor and size told her he belonged to the Outrider Knights, but now the ghostly knight walks to a different tune. Rather than its phantasmal lap around the town’s plaza, the ghost walks with a companion. Hand in hand, it seems that the Outrider Knight is bound together with a figure bearing the armor of the Dancer. Her armor remaining her prison, even in death, but now she too walks with the glow of kinship. Sibéal silently watches the two of them stroll through the city streets as a pair. The moon’s glow illuminating their journey to wherever they wish to go. It is just the two of them in a realm all their own. The tortures of this world and its denizens cannot touch them. How divine it must be: To walk with the one you love untouched by this world. Sibéal has drifted far into herself. She does not know how long she has watched their ghostly stroll but it is all she wishes to pursue in this moment. Then, the ghosts vanish as strangely as they appeared. Nothing was ever said. No action taken. The apparitions appeared and left. And it is this simple act that brings the woman to shed a single tear. The first tear she has ever shed since her title as Ashen One was bestowed. A new dream pollutes her mind. With hope, she looks to the night sky for answers. She hopes that he can hear her, wherever he is.<br/>
“Someday,” A one word prayer. The only reward she could wish for a duty well accomplished. “But not this day,” and she trudges on.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I hope my humble tale found you some warmth in these troubled times. May the Flames Guide Thee</p>
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